Even though I’m well into mid-life and already straddling the age when men start dropping like flies, I still haven’t drawn up a will – living or otherwise. I haven’t had “the discussion” with any of my friends or co-workers and none of my relatives will return my phone calls, so if I suddenly meet with my demise, no one will know what do to with all my earthly belongings, money, assets and more importantly, my corpse.
Granted, there’s not much to haggle over. The list probably wouldn’t fill a double-spaced Post-it, but they’re all I have and I don’t want my TV and water pique going to someone I don’t even know at the Salvation Army. So, I thought I’d take this opportunity to spell out my final wishes. All of you survivors can fight over who gets to implement them.
What you end up doing with my body has a lot to do with the way I go. While I’ll admit that I haven’t exactly treated my body like a temple, my cholesterol is still lower than my I.Q., so there’s not much chance that I’ll have a heart attack during a bowel movement. On the other hand, I am into a lot of high-risk activities like running with scissors and asking women how much they weigh, so there is a good chance that the body you end up with for viewing won’t necessarily be completely intact. If I die playing around with my chainsaw, you’ll need to borrow an arm, leg or a foot from the mortuary to shove into my funeral suit. If one of my handguns misfired, you might need to fill in the damage to my face with some Spackle, then cover it with a heavy layer of Maybelline. All I ask is that the parts match and I retain a modicum of my original ethnicity.